The Duke of Snow and Apples (10 page)

Frederick bowed. “At your service.”

“I didn’t realize, is this your half-day?” she asked. She tried to inject an imperious air into her voice to hide the confusing but familiar energy that sang through her veins. If her heart was a pond, then Frederick’s presence was a tossed stone, ruining her calm with a disordered splash that sent ripples coursing outward.

The ripples from last night, from his kiss, and that strange magic, had only just died down after a day of reminding herself that he was a footman. He served. He worked with his
hands
. Those hands had touched her without her leave. It hardly mattered that after two moments she’d been quite willing to offer him leave.

“No. I was invited to dine with the Upper Ten, and formal wear is required. I was just finishing dressing when the bell on my livery went off.” His hand strayed to his lopsided cravat, which had loosened further during his speech. “Looks like I arrived just in time.”

“It wasn’t my fault!” Charlotte said, too quickly. “The letter, it-it just…”

“Combusted all by itself?”

“It was a very hateful letter.” She smiled, then checked herself.
Why am I playing the flirt?
It must have been Frederick’s lack of livery. Yes, that had to be it. His livery was bright and flamboyant, all blue plush and gleaming brass and gold embroidery—a vivid reminder of the distance between their stations. With Frederick in ordinary, albeit shabby, garb, it was far too easy to forget he was underfolk.

The edges of his lips edged upward before he ironed them back down into an impassive line. “I should thank you for your kind words on my behalf. You’re the reason I’m to dine with the upper servants. Mr. Lutter has it in for my promotion.” His cravat continued to slowly unravel.

Charlotte seized upon a momentary distraction. “Here, let me help you with that. Papa always let me tie these before an important event, balls and spring festivals and such.” She reached forward and untied the square of muslin.
Bad idea
. Too late, Charlotte realized that standing this close to Frederick, she could see the flicker of his pulse in his exposed throat. Breathing in, she smelled the clean odor of his soap as well as the warm, deeper male scent underneath. With or without livery, he was the same man underneath. She hesitated.

“Did your father not have a valet?” Frederick’s lips loomed so close above Charlotte’s own that she could feel the laughter in his voice on her skin.

“Of course he had a valet. He just liked to let me do it.” Charlotte tugged sharply on the cravat, causing Frederick to jerk. As quickly as she could manage, she folded the fabric into a tight Firebrand knot. “Now you’re ready for the Upper Ten.”

“Thank you.” A husky note entered Frederick’s voice on the word “thank.”

“No, I should be thanking
you
. For your foresight yesterday with the gown. I didn’t have the courage to choose it myself, but I would not have handled the evening nearly so well without it.” Her admission stung less than she thought it would. Nothing seemed to matter much, not when Frederick stood so close she could touch him. She found all her attention drawn inexplicably to him, to the points of his collar, the rise and fall of his chest, the heat that charged the air between them. She tilted her head up, not satisfied with the curve of his lips, the crooked line of his nose.

She wanted to see his eyes, those pieces of summer sky trapped in such a wintry serious face. She wanted to see those eyes that blazed and brought out the secret color in the world. She caught only a glimpse of deep blue before Frederick broke away, turned his face.

“You’re welcome,” he said. He backed away a little too swiftly, bringing him up against a wall. He looked everywhere but at her. “I should bring someone in, to replace the burned curtain. The damage doesn’t look too severe. I’m certain some spare fabric could be found. Should you have any questions, I’ll…”

“I do.” She stepped forward, pinning the hapless footman.
Enough games
. “What makes your eyes light up?”

Frederick stilled. Gruffly, he continued, “If there is nothing I can do at present, miss, my presence is required in the housekeeper’s room.”

“Your presence is required
here
. I asked you a question. You are obligated to answer it.”

“I am obligated as a footman to serve your immediate needs.” His voice chilled. “Your curiosity is your own affair.”

“The last time your eyes lit up it was after you kissed me,” Charlotte murmured, as if she hadn’t heard Frederick at all. She smiled.
Turnabout is fair play.
“What would happen if I kissed you?”

“Nothing.” He started to sidle toward the door.

Charlotte laughed. “I can’t take
your
word for it.”

“I would ruin you,” he insisted. He feinted left. Charlotte followed.

“With one little kiss?”

“What makes you think it would be only one?” he snapped, composure breaking. He froze, realizing how much he’d revealed.

“Is that how rapacious footmen really speak?” Charlotte snickered. “I fear I haven’t kept up with the latest novels. What am I supposed to say in this situation? ‘Ravish me! Ravish me, you scandalous reprobate!’”

She continued laughing until a flash of blue caught her eye, and a firm hand gripped her waist while another clutched the back of her head, and Frederick swallowed the last of her laughter as his mouth covered hers. It was a hard, bruising kiss, as he savagely took what she had only teased him with before. His tongue darted in, counting each one of her teeth. His hand moved upward, tracing glyphs of fire up her back.

Pleasure bubbled over within her, boiling every thought away until nothing remained but joyful steam, rising and rising. Before long she’d evaporate entirely. She responded in kind, with tongue and teeth, nipping at Frederick’s lower lip. She curled her fingers through his hair, took his surprised groan into her mouth.

He broke away, gasping. “Rapacious enough for you?” His eyes shone a clear sapphire, and misty shapes swarmed around his face, faded tones of orange and deep indigo.
Frustration. Longing
. Charlotte wasn’t quite sure how she knew that. She felt as if she recognized them, as if from her own inner palette, as unfathomable as that sounded.

Even as she watched, the pallid colors around him paled even further, overtaken by muted browns and grays, until they faded altogether. The light in his eyes flickered and died like a blown-out candle.

Charlotte licked her lips, which felt swollen and sensitive. She opened her mouth to speak, then realized she had to breathe in first, and the fact that she had to think of this surprised her.
Which one of us won this round?
“I g-guess I was right.”

Frederick released her and pushed past her to the door. “Don’t meddle with what you don’t understand.”

“Wait!”

He halted, his back to her.

“I hope you enjoy your dinner with the Upper Ten,” she said. “That’s all.”

He turned to face her, but kept the servant’s submissive posture with his head tilted down. It shielded his eyes beneath the dark spray of his lashes. “I’ll send someone in to replace the drapes. Unless you were planning to immolate the rest of your personal correspondence?”

Charlotte smiled to cover how strangely cold and heavy the distance between them made her feel. “I’ll let you know if I am. You’re still
my
footman, until I deem otherwise.”

“You may come to regret that.” His eyes flickered briefly before he came back to himself and strode out the door.

Chapter Ten

Mr. Lutter found Frederick wandering down the corridors in a haze.

“I was looking everywhere for you, my boy!” he said. “It’s terribly bad form to show up late to the Pug’s Parlor.”

“Sorry, sir, I was held up with Miss Charlotte. A personal emergency.” Held up? More like
ambushed
. He wouldn’t go so far as to suspect she had set those curtains on fire on purpose, but that didn’t mean the idea hadn’t struck him.

“Of course, of course. Work before pleasure, and all that.” Mr. Lutter put a hand on his shoulder and herded him in the right direction. Frederick didn’t mind in the least, since his brain decided to focus on more pressing problems.

Charlotte hadn’t turned away.
From his touch or his power, even though he’d used both to try and frighten her off. His attempt had backfired in a truly spectacular fashion. Rapacious footman, indeed. She’d only held on tighter and showed him how terrifying seduction could be. Sweet merciful God, those lips, the bite of her teeth, the warm weight of her body pressed against his…

He couldn’t hide from that in his cold place. What cold place? Charlotte’s very presence swept through him like a hot wind, throwing open doors and clearing away dust and melting the frozen locks that kept his power trapped inside. Why didn’t it frighten her? Why didn’t it repulse her? Why didn’t it terrify her the same way it terrified him?

Frederick jerked back to reality as Mr. Lutter stopped in front of the Pug’s Parlor and opened the door. Frederick swallowed a host of excuses and stepped inside.

The housekeeper’s set of personal rooms included a snug parlor as well as a cozy dining room where the Upper Ten traditionally gathered to dine. As housekeeper, Mrs. Morris had her pick of the Seven Dowagers’ discards, and as the Dowagers—Lady Balrumple in particular—constantly reorganized their decorating schemes, Mrs. Morris had a great deal to choose from. She did not share her mistresses’ taste for the ostentatious, however, and her quiet choice of colors and decoration rendered her parlor a peaceful oasis in the midst of the Seven Dowagers’ often garish and warring styles.

Mrs. Morris held court in the plush blue armchair closest to the fire, next to Cook who wore a startling turquoise turban. Miss Lamonte perched on a settee she shared with Mary Wymouth, head housemaid. The other three Dowagers’ lady’s maids tried to look as comfortable as they possibly could whilst sharing a sofa made for only two. Frederick spotted two new faces—the visiting lady’s maids, who as honored guests had chairs of their own.

Meanwhile, the menfolk contented themselves by leaning against walls and furniture. Mr. William, the groom of chambers, gave him a welcoming nod. Mr. Kilcott, the head gardener, raised a hand in greeting. Along with Mr. Thompson, the young under-butler, and Mr. Gelvers, who glowered in a corner, four visiting valets rounded out the Upper Ten.

All were in formal wear, from Cook and her turban to Mr. Kilcott who sported the gold stickpin Lady Balrumple had given him last Firemass. The whole picture was meant to invoke the gentle society of their masters, a distance from the inferior sphere of the lesser staff, the Lower Five, with their group meals of small beer and cold meat. It didn’t matter that, with the exception of Miss Lamonte, most of the women’s gowns were a few seasons, if not several years, out of fashion. Even the valet to the wealthiest guest owed his most exquisite accessories to his employer’s castoffs.

“Ladies, gentleman, may I introduce Mr. Freddy Snow?” said Mr. Lutter. “He’s our first footman.”

“Footman?” said the slender, fair-haired valet to Mr. Horace Oswald, a poorly hidden sneer in his voice.

“Not for very much longer, I should hope,” said Mrs. Morris kindly.

“No one knows what the future has in store for mere mortals,” said Mr. Lutter. He placed a finger against his nose in what was likely meant to be a subtle hint.

Frederick followed the others into the dining room, where the table was laid with a crisp white cloth, gleaming china, and the glassware set Lady Balrumple had tired of after only two uses. Frederick quelled his growing discomfort. He preferred the informal atmosphere of the servants’ dining hall. The formality and etiquette of the Pug’s Parlor reminded him too much of what he’d given up.

Even though Frederick was only a footman, Mr. Lutter’s hint regarding his advancement softened the rest of the company toward him. While he might not be Upper Ten yet, clearly he was on the right path.

Lady Tamsin’s maid, a mature and sturdy woman, smiled at him from across the table. “How long have you been in Lady Balrumple’s service?”

“Ten years, ma’am,” he replied.

“That’s a long time.”

“I remember Freddy’s arrival like it was only yesterday,” Mr. Lutter said from the head of the table. “Only fifteen years old, if he was a day. I knew even then, he was destined for greater things.”

Uncomfortable heat began to build beneath Frederick’s tight collar.

“You found him collapsed on her ladyship’s doorstep, looking like a drowned rat. You knew even then?” Mr. Gelvers asked. He shot a glare at Frederick, as if the footman continued to drip dirty water onto the carpet even now.

Mr. Lutter chuckled. “Of course I knew. Her ladyship would have offered him every charity but the only one dear Freddy asked for was a job. You see, he was dedicated to service from the very beginning.”

Frederick stared at his food, tension building behind his eyes. Unbeknownst to the kindly house steward, his trip down memory lane dragged Frederick down a much darker road. Mr. Gelvers had the right of it. Back then, Frederick must have dragged half the Basca river’s waters with him to the Dowagers’ front door, his hair matted and clogged with silt, his throat too bruised and swollen to speak.

“Have you no family then, Freddy?” Mrs. Colton’s maid asked.

Frederick jerked, startled out of his reverie. “N-no, miss. None.”

The lady’s maid smiled, wisps of smoke-blue sadness drifting about her face. Frederick blinked in surprise. He glanced at Mr. Gelvers. The butler stewed in a cloud of disdain the precise color of old rust. Mr. Lutter shone with sunny, butter-yellow obliviousness.

Horrified, Frederick pulled back. He hadn’t even noticed the familiar faint hum in his brain. True, he was only using a fraction of his power, just enough to see other people’s surface emotions without betraying himself with his eyes’ telltale glow, but just the fact that any amount of his magic had slipped past his defenses spoke volumes about the fragility of his restraint.

Mrs. Colton’s maid, perhaps suspecting she’d wandered into painful territory, changed the subject. “I say, where is Lord Noxley’s valet? Is he not joining us for supper?”

“If he has any sense, he’s ten miles away and still running,” said Enshaw’s valet. He shuddered. “You couldn’t pay me enough to work for a scoundrel like Noxley.”

“I believe that’s the trouble,” said Mary Wymouth. “I’ve heard Noxley’s so deeply in debt he couldn’t pay a rat catcher.”

Viscount Elban’s valet piped up, “Last I heard, Lord Noxley can’t quite decide which frock coat he’s to wear tomorrow, so he’s ordered his man to brush and air all of them at once.”

“Dedication to one’s employer is the highest virtue of our profession,” Mr. Gelvers sniffed.

“Lofty words, that,” Elban’s valet said.

“It’s true.” All eyes swiveled toward Frederick. The authority in his voice surprised even him. “There’s honor in service.”
And redemption
.

“Here, here,” said Mr. Lutter. He clinked his wineglass against Mrs. Morris’s, and conversation slowly resumed, to Frederick’s relief.

There was no point or pleasure to be had reflecting on the past. For the first few months of his employment under the Seven Dowagers, pure exhaustion had emptied him of all grief, failure, or fear of pursuit. With nothing left to him but endless days bearing the weight of the upperfolk, he had discovered purpose instead.

For every freezing, rain-soaked carriage he flanked, a Dowager conveyed their card to a neighbor in snug, sheltered comfort. For every knuckle he rubbed raw with astringent polish, a Dowager could see her smile reflected back at her from every surface when she sat to dinner. Every burden he took on was another one lifted for someone else. He could remove worry instead of inciting it, all the while remaining invisible, unnoticed.

His past might be full of selfishness and betrayal, but as Freddy Snow, as a footman, he found peace in serving upperfolk who knew what responsibility and obligation meant. He was better now as a servant than he’d been, well,
before
.

Miss Lamonte sipped her wine and sent a heavy-lidded gaze of mockery in Frederick’s direction. “I find this commendable modesty strange coming from you, when
ra’Vicomtesse’s
grandniece keeps you scurrying like a dog.”

“You misjudge her,” Frederick snapped. All sound at the table stilled, if only for a moment, but Miss Lamonte stared as if looking at him with new eyes.

As the sounds of clinking tableware and the hum of speech rose around him, he drew his power back into his cold place, freezing over every chink and crack in his wall. He’d abused and wasted the power he’d been born to, but as a footman, he had earned something more rare and precious. He helped people, he
served
them, instead of using or harming them. He wouldn’t sacrifice what he’d won, not for anything in the world. Not for wealth. Certainly not for position.

And not for Charlotte, either. He’d see to that, even if he had to convince her personally.

…

Charlotte met Frederick again at dinner, when he and three other footmen, all in full livery, served the soup course with precisely choreographed timing. She felt a queer, heavy sense of disappointment that sank to the bottom of her belly at the sight of him in his servant’s kit. She wasn’t sure why she felt that way—serving was his job. It was his natural purpose in life. Expensive livery was surely a badge of honor.

So why did she think it looked stifling and confining?

She tried to rein in her mind and drive it back toward the dinner conversation. She had more important people to impress than one reluctant and strangely gifted footman.

“Lady Balrumple,” said Mr. Colton, “may I suggest a tournament of Persuasion after dinner?”

Aunt Hildy dismissed the notion with a wave of her fan. “I will have to decline. Persuasion is such a serious game, and can drag the evening to an unreasonable hour. I need all of my guests to be as well-rested as possible before tomorrow.”

Frederick ladled oxtail soup into Augusta’s bowl, directly across from Charlotte. He looked up, their gazes met, and the sudden jolt of blue overwhelmed her. He held his just a fraction longer than necessary, and Charlotte felt a strange, trembling thrill spiral through her, flooding her veins with azure and aqua and the million other shades of sea and sky his eyes contained.

“…for the mud hunt,” her great-aunt finished.

“What?” Apparently, the world without blue had progressed without her.

“A mud hunt,” Augusta said. She grinned. “We have them all the time at Tamsin Heath when they’re in season.”

“I’ve heard of them, but I’ve never been—”

“I don’t think gnomes have a season,” Viscount Noxley interrupted. “They’re earth elementals—aren’t they always here?” He waved away the footman attempting to serve him as if shooing an irritating fly.

“Mud hunts are for gnomes?” Charlotte asked.

“Heavens, Noxley, you can’t trifle with gnomes at any old time of the year,” said Mr. Colton.

“Why not?” asked Charlotte.

“I don’t trifle with gnomes
at all
if I can help it,” Noxley replied in a bored tone. “Leave the elemental folk magic to the peasants.”

The very notion of a hunt made every male guest in the room’s voice louder, their gestures wider. This was male territory—they might consider it bothersome or uncouth to drag an ignorant girl along with them. Particularly when she knew so little about the sport.

She’d seen gnomes once or twice. Wild ones occasionally scampered through the meadow at the edge of her father’s estate in the spring, leaving odd, isolated patches of foxglove and Maiden’s Tears in their wake. Wealthy old Lord Gambon who lived a few miles over kept an Earthkeeper who summoned gnomes to help with crops. How did one hunt them?

Clearly, her lack of expertise would only make her a hindrance and an embarrassment, and to win a husband she had to play to her strengths. As other guests volunteered to join in or else sit on the sidelines and observe, she concerned herself with polishing off the last drops of her soup in silence.

Conversation stilled as the footmen returned to take the soup course away and return to lay the second course upon the sideboard. Despite the identical livery they all wore, an odd awareness in Charlotte unerringly drew her gaze to Frederick. He’d tricked her into discovering she could lower her mask at a ball without making a fool of herself—would he be willing to hypnotize her into believing herself a competent mud hunter as well?

Again, as Frederick served individual dishes from the sideboard to one of the guests across the table, he looked up. Almost as if he looked up at her at precisely that moment because he somehow
knew
she was looking at him at the same time.

His eyes were still unsettlingly beautiful, but the aqua depths were calm. No light. No colors. Charlotte could have said that about Frederick himself—he held himself so straight, his face so still, as if trying to distance himself as much as possible from the dark-haired, bright-eyed man who had pressed himself against her as if her every curve and line had been expressly designed to fit him.

All the footmen serving the second course held neutral expressions, but somehow Frederick seemed to take it to another level entirely. He held his expression like a mask of ice, something cold and brittle and unnatural. Like the first winter freeze, Charlotte could still see the murky glimmer of something alive twitching beneath, even if she couldn’t reach it.

Yes.
That’s what bothered her. Frederick’s coldness spoke of something deeper and more painful. She only wanted to help him in the same way he’d helped her.
Turnaround’s fair play.